


Gilded Intent

by Pyromaniacal



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, backstabbing, ngl this was highkey inspired by tmht
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-27 18:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyromaniacal/pseuds/Pyromaniacal
Summary: The Amnesiac could not be forgiven.





	Gilded Intent

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't canon in any way, I had to write it to get it out of my system

The heat of the flames burned on Basil’s cheeks, hot and red. They hissed and popped, a million bright snakes flying up into the night, fleeting in their form but eternal in his mind.

Basil could see Antonio’s body silhouetted in the firelight. He was hunched over the ground in a wrong sort of way, and for a moment Basil thought he was dead. He could do nothing but imagine his lover’s corpse, cold and lifeless, sacrificed too soon and too late — the thought alone was enough to bring tears to his eyes, stinging salty, and cause his voice to catch in the back of his throat.

That was, at least, until he heard the other man’s wheezing above the crackling of the infernal blaze. Basil finally let free the choked shriek he had been stifling, but it was inaudible above the din of the flames — _his_ flames. _Kyle’s_ flames. Those flames that had burned, burned, burned, so long ago, devouring homes and lives and loves. Devouring Antonio, his past, his future, and now everything Basil had ever thought he’d known.

Barely, just barely, in the flickering glow could Basil see that terrible gilded hilt, that terrible gilded hilt which had caused him so much agony these past three years. The blaze’s scorching scarlet sparkled horribly against that hilt, as if it were some royal jewel or long-lost treasure, buried deep into Antonio’s flesh. It stuck out at an odd angle, an unnatural gateway to the man’s mortality, and Basil could do nothing but imagine the wicked blade he knew lay beneath.

Suddenly, Antonio shuddered violently, twisting his broken silhouette with agony. Basil watched, noncomprehending, as Antonio stood up shakily and wrenched the knife out of his stomach. Immediately came the sharp stench of blood. The pungent iron tang caught in the back of Basil’s throat, and he felt himself gag as he saw Antonio’s form crumple again.

“A-Antonio?” Basil’s voice shook. Taking out the knife was _bad,_ the _worst_ thing he could do, and Antonio _knew_ that. Seven years of paranoia would do that to someone, ingrain the ins and outs of every possible worst-case-scenario into every fiber of their being. To take out the knife was a death sentence, a sealed fate, a crushing finality of the highest repercussions. If Antonio was dead _before_ , well…

Basil couldn’t bear to think.

The knife was a hideous thing, a shape too sharp for Basil to fully comprehend. Crimson blood stained the silvery blade, and he knew all too well the person to which the reddish splatter belonged — yet Antonio was clutching it desperately, as if it was his only remaining lifeline, his only remaining hope, and Basil couldn’t fathom why, could fathom anything, not now. Not anymore.

Antonio staggered forward, his breathing uneven, and in the hellish light Basil could see that his lover’s sunny yellow shirt was stained dark, too dark. It bloomed out from the center of his chest, a flower of the man’s coming demise. Basil watched in horror as he stumbled, and immediately ran forward, to catch him as he fell —

_“Don’t touch me,”_ Antonio hissed, and shoved Basil away.

Basil jumped back, stumbling on nothing. “Antonio — Antonio, the knife—”

“Ah. Yes. The … the knife …” Antonio was wheezing, wheezing heavily, whether from pain or smoke Basil did not know, did not want to know. He sounded tired, exhausted, and his weathered features were contorted with grief and agony. “I can’t … forget … the knife …”

“Antonio, you’re bleeding, you’re not thinking straight — we need to get you to a hospital —”

“Oh, I think I’m … better than … I’ve ever been …” Antonio let out a tortured chuckle. There was no life left in his sad, dark eyes, the sad dark eyes that had beheld Basil so lovingly so many times before, and Basil immediately recalled all those warm, moonlit nights they spent together, when they were still in love. He couldn’t help but remember Antonio’s gentle touch against his cheek, or his soft smile in the rain, or those murmured midnights they shared, now bloodied by a killer’s intent.

And with that, Antonio stabbed him.

The shock hit Basil first, before the pain, and the other man did not look so gentle, so kindly, not anymore. For a second, that gilded hilt just sat there, lead and heavy and half-unreal, throbbing in his gut and in his soul. All was silent, save for the crackle of those calamitous flames — that is, until Antonio ripped out the knife, that evil, evil blade, and Basil screamed, screamed, _screamed_ like he’d never screamed before, of anguish and terror and betrayal.

The flames around them crackled on, cackled on, as if mocking him for what he’d done. _Traitor, traitor, traitor!_ they hissed, among his screams. _You know you deserve this! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!_

It was getting harder and harder for Basil to breathe. He panted, wheezed, _gasped_ for air, between his screams, as the world spun around him, spun around him, spinning, spinning, _spinning_ while he collapsed, the gravel driveway biting into his shins, his hands, his face. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but that dull, red pain, where that knife had been, that gilded knife of treachery. Through his misery, he was vaguely aware that his shirt was oddly wet, and as he laid there, among the gravel, he finally could scream no more.

The smoke rose up into the inky sky, thick and black and choking, and Basil heard his lover cough, somewhere far away. His consciousness now waning, Basil choked on his words. “You said— you said there was no _justification_ for… for murder…”

The look Antonio gave him then was absent of love, absent of sadness — absent, even, of pity. Pure, angry hatred was all that burned in that awful gaze.

“Oh, I think there might be _one_.”


End file.
